The Dog Days
by Tazlet
Summary: Having overspent, Watson must deal with the consequences.


**The Dog Days**  
by Taz

London in August can feel as sultry as Bombay. I recall the summer of 1894, particularly, when Baker Street was ripe with the inevitable byproduct of horse drawn vehicles, and tar oozed between the wooden paving blocks in the street.

God would not help either Mr. Sherlock Holmes or myself if we failed scrape our boots or exchange them for slippers the moment we stepped in the front door. Sleep was impossible, tempers frayed, and every sensible person with the means fled to the countryside or the seashore.

With the town empty, it seemed London's criminal element decided to lie back, as well. Until that point it had been busy summer for my friend; the newspapers were still trumpeting the return of the Duchess of Grantham's emeralds when the knocker fell still.

Personally, I welcomed the break, but after a week's rest Holmes began to take the lack of felonious enterprise as a personal affront. Mental stagnation was anathema to his nature; he was not a patient man at the best of times and, with no case to occupy him, a petulant streak in his nature emerged that had the effect of making him a very trying companion, indeed. The morning to which I refer, the mercury had already topped ninety.

Holmes rose from the breakfast table and threw himself into his favorite armchair. There he lounged with his legs crossed in front of him, biting his knuckles, and scowling out the window.

"What a dull, unambitious fellow the London criminal is!" he said. "I can think of any number of empty houses I could have burgled by now."

"It is not the criminal's job to keep you entertained. And, if it were, I'm sure they'd be as entitled to a holiday as the next man. Why don't you work on your commonplace book—get rid of some of some of this clutter you've accumulated."

Holmes appeared to consider the merit of my suggestion, but then said, "No. I am going to sit on this spot and let this too, too solid flesh melt and resolve itself into a puddle of ghee."

This did not bode well for the day. To distract him, I said, "Why don't you come to the swimming baths with me? We could get some hokey-pokey after."

Holmes half-closed his eyes and shuddered elaborately. "I think not."

"Suit yourself," said I, and went back to working on my accounts.

At least, I tried to work on my accounts. The rat-ta-tap-tap of Holmes' fingers on the armrest of the chair made it impossible to concentrate.

"Will you stop that infernal rapping! You've caused me to transpose a nine and a six."

"Why do you bother?" said Holmes. "No amount of fiddling is going to enhance the bottom line by as much as a penny."

"I am trying to work out if the payment for that last article in _The Strand_ will stretch to letting me get away for a few days of fishing."

"And does I?" said Holmes, just as I struck a line under the pitiful total.

"No."

Silence reigned. I could feel Holmes' gaze on the back of my neck. At last, in a low voice, he said, "Watson, fetch the fan from the mantle."

"Nothing doing," said I. "I'm not your _punkawallah_."

"You could be."

"It's too hot."

"I'm bored."

"Aren't we all?" I said, bitterly. "Why don't you come swimming with me; the exercise will do you good."

"And subject myself to the sight of all those hairy shanks and bell-ends? I shudder at the thought. You know that if you hadn't—"

"Enough!" I said, throwing my pen down, and swiveling my chair about to face him. "I am entirely aware of where the fault lies, nonetheless, if you could see your way to loaning me a small sum…?"

"No." He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. "If I must be stoic, so must you. It will teach you not to make frivolous bets."

That his amusement at my expense was well deserved but didn't make it any more pleasant to tolerate. I had been looking forward to a week's fishing in Scotland; since that had been rendered impractical, the only relief I could find from the heat, as well the oppressive atmosphere in our sitting room, was to spend part of the day at the new swimming baths.

Unfortunately, as London's youth had fled, and the Camden Baths had a nude bathing policy, Holmes was also correct about hairy shanks and bell ends. The sight of one of our substantial businessman lounging on his back, belly up like a basking walrus isn't pretty.

As often as he's denied it, I'm still not sure that Holmes can't read my mind because, at that moment, he flexed and stretched luxuriously in his chair, like a cat. His legs relaxed and his dressing gown of Egyptian cotton, the only garment he found bearable in this heat, fell open. I could see the damp skin and the spot just below his navel where began a soft line of fur that pointed like an arrow, straight down.

Anyone who didn't know Holmes would have assumed he was falling asleep, and the exposure was an accident. I, knowing Holmes, sighed, and said, "It's very hot, today. Is _Sahib_ hot?"

" _Sahib_ is very hot," he said. "How badly does his _punkwallah_ want to go…fishing?"

I made a note that I would exact revenge for the way he dragged out the last word; I had a belt of Indian elephant leather and, once the weather broke, he was for it.

That morning, however, I said, " _Sahib's punkwalla_ wants to go fishing very much."

"Then he knows what he has to do."

I shed my gown, fetched the palm leaf fan from the mantel and stood over him, cooling him. He let me stand there until my arms ached, and then opened half-lidded eyes. He looked at me and flexed his torso from shoulders to hips. The sash of his gown came undone.

The swelling column of his sex raised its head from the red velvet egg sack where it had been resting, and my prick responded by pushing against the front of my briefs. I felt the muscles of my arse throbbing hungrily. My lips had gone dry. I licked them and said, "Does sahib want his _punkwalla_ to..."

"Stop his gob, drop his drawers, hand him the kipper dish, and get down on his knees?" Holmes said. "Do it."

Without another word, I was arse-up on all fours with my drawers at half-mast, to cushion my knees, and he was lubricating me with the oil from the dish. He opened me wide, working me with his fingers, until I begged him to stop being such a horse's arse.

"Finish me off!" I bellowed and cursed, but he knew the right moment to let me feel him nudging the entrance to my body, before he pushed home.

I can only describe the feeling as one of sublime pleasure, and Holmes had the strength of will, and the generosity, to contain that moment of fundamental unity until I pushed back. Then he pounded into me, filling me with fire that poured through me.

It's true that there are times when he's a complete twat, and I wonder at myself for putting up with him. Yet, when a man's heart recognizes his superior and master, he longs to join with him and submit to his will. It's perfectly natural, especially when you discover he bought the tickets to Inverness two days ago.

 _Finis  
6/8/2018 _


End file.
